A thick, black fog hangs low over this place now.
Long shadows cast by rolling waves of darkness spilling across the houses and walkways.
With each passing second, breathing becomes increasingly labored.
The windswept streets grow empty and desolate,
As the life that once filled them hides behind doors and walls of brick,
As the light at the top of the hill that has remained vigilant to us all for so long
Is cloaked by clouds spewed forth in the wake of the fall.
The light atop the hill grows faint.
Its luminous form so close as to appear within grasp,
Yet so far as to inspire mythical and increasingly preposterous tales of it’s origin.
Its glow at times the only force, it seems
Which holds the emptiness of the eternal night from consuming all.
A beacon which has served to guide the lost and weary,
Through the winding corridors of the city sprawl,
As well as the labyrinth of self-doubt and fear they often find within themselves.
Obscured now by billowing deceit,
The perceived absence has become for some
A reminder of their latent fears and fading dreams,
Which themselves remain steadfast but are often masked just the same.
In this there is hope;
The illumination by which we have come so far,
Draws from a source which can never be exhausted,
Can be made to appear less bright by what comes between us and the source,
But will always remain steadfast through even the thickest of shrouds,
And as such will guide us through even the most merciless gloom,
So long as we continue
Looking to the light
Even when it cannot be seen.